“But . . . I . . .” Bart sputters.

A bout of coughing announces my dad’s approach. “Jesus Christ.” He presses his hand against his mouth, trying to stifle it. “What happened?”

“There was a strange sound and then the engine warning light came on. And then I smelled oil burning, so I shut ’er down,” Jonah explains. “Everything was fine coming in until I hit that patch of rock. I couldn’t see it until the last minute. Tried to avoid it, but I couldn’t. Fuck, I’m sorry—”

“Are you okay?” my dad interrupts abruptly, as if he doesn’t want to hear Jonah’s apologies.

Jonah shifts his body and winces. “Pretty sure my shoulder popped out for a second while I was trying to shimmy my way out, but yeah, I think I’m good.”

“Did you hit your head?”

“No.”

“Let me see.”

I pull my hand away and stand to get out of the way. My dad crouches next to Jonah. He peels away my bloodstained sweater and I cringe at the sight.

“It’s shallow and pretty clean. Probably got grazed by a piece of metal. I’d say you’re in for at least ten stitches.”

One eye—the one not covered in blood—looks up to regard me. “Was that exciting or what, Barbie?”

I shake my head in exasperation at him.

“That girl ran like I’ve never seen anyone run before,” my dad murmurs.

“She wanted to make sure the ground finished me off.”

I wanted to make sure you’re okay. Because I was worried. Because I care.

“No. I figured you’d jump at the chance to ruin my favorite sweater,” I say instead.

“Hmmm.” Jonah’s lips part in a bloody smile as he presses the soft, pink cloth against his forehead again. “At least one good thing came out of this, then.”

Sirens sound in the far distance.

Jonah groans. “Who called them? The hell if I’m being carried out of here.” He uses my dad as leverage to get to his feet, wincing in pain, his movements slow and graceless. Even injured, though, he’s a looming presence. He stops to take in Betty’s mangled frame. “Damn. So what is she? Number nine?”

“She would be number ten. But, hey, ten planes in fifty-four years ain’t too shabby.” My dad shakes his head and sighs. “Never gonna doubt George and his funny feelings ever again.”

Bart snorts his agreement, a dumbstruck look on his face as he shifts a piece of metal with his boot.

Chapter 16

“Hey.” My dad’s arm dangles out the open window of his truck. “You sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine. I’m just gonna grab some lunch and then chill for a bit on the porch.” I went back to Wild with my dad after the accident only to find myself unable to sit still in that office, partly because of the adrenaline still pumping through my veins, but also because my shirt has Jonah’s blood smeared all over it.

Wild’s planes are grounded until the FAA says otherwise. Dad said he was heading back to the crash site to meet with one of their investigators, so he offered to drop me off at home.

My gaze wanders over to the quiet little house next door. “When do you think Jonah will be home?”

“A bit, still. They’re gonna want to check him over well before they let him go, in case he has a head injury.”

I nod solemnly. That feeling in my gut—that dread that seized my insides when I saw the wreckage—still lingers, hours later.

“He’s gonna be fine, Calla.”

“Yeah, I know.” I shrug it off.

“Okay. Well, call me if you feel like coming back later.” My dad coughs a few times and then clears his throat. “You still got my number?”

I hold up the slip of paper he gave me before we left, five minutes ago, as proof.

The truck begins to roll forward but stops abruptly. His lips twist in thought. “You know, I think your mom’s old chair may still be in the garage. The one she used to use on the porch. Anyway, there’s a bunch of stuff tucked in the back that she wrapped up and put away for the winter.”

“You mean, the winter twenty-four years ago?”

“Yeah . . .” He scratches his chin, a sheepish smile on his lips. “Anyway, you might find something useful in there.” With that, he sets off, the truck bumping and jostling down the driveway. I watch him quietly, wondering if he’s really so calm about today’s crash or if he just hides it well.

I notice him slow on the main road to talk to a passing girl on a bike. It takes me a moment to realize it’s Mabel.

She sails down my dad’s driveway, her long hair fluttering wildly with the wind. By the time she reaches me, she’s panting, and I know she’s heard about Jonah. Her eyes widen at the sight of my shirt.

“It was just a cut. Ten stitches, probably,” I assure her, quoting my dad.

She shrugs her backpack off. It falls to the ground with a thud. “I was in town, getting groceries, when I heard someone say that Jonah crashed his plane and had to go to the hospital. So I went there, but they wouldn’t let me in to see him, and I couldn’t get hold of my mom at first, but then I did and she told me he was fine and to just go home, but I was so worried,” she rambles, her words quick and panicky, her breath ragged, as if she had pedaled as hard as she could all the way here.